If Andy Roony died in the middle of a hiccup, he would probably come back to scour the earth looking for any damn way to end hell, which is an endless stream of hiccups. And if he did come back, and if he read the Dope, this is how I imagine the OP would read:
This happened to me once, on an evening not much unlike this one, which is amazing considering the evening changes depending on where you read this. Only, it was not a library, but it was a large building, possibly a cave or a courthouse or a courthose cave, something architects call Brutalism. Also, there was no bat, but there was this old woman, topless from the bottom down, claiming to be the messiah, the Son of God, the one with an unbelievable turnip meatloaf recipe. Upside down was she, atleast from my point of view on the skylight, as she ran back and forth between the bunks.
Oh, yeah, it wasn’t a courthouse, it was an orphanarium, a place to view orphans with telescopes, only I refused to use mirrors to see what I could see almost as good by squinting my eyes.
Anyway, the old woman, the Son of God, with floral clothes and pig eye sized pearls and sensible orthopedic shoes on her hands, was scaring the children. They were screaming, something in Hungarian, about protecting their stock portfolios, only now that I am reading this I just realized I don’t know Hungarian
Ah, and that brings me to another point, that the old woman was not wearing shoes for hands or feet for shoes, but she was wearing wings for arms and feet for feet. And it wasn’t an orphanarium, a place to view orphans with telescopes, but a library, a place to hold books on what used to be bunks but are more likely shelves.
So I was in the library, on the skylight - well actually, not on the skylight, but probably sitting inside of it, what used to be an orphanarium - watching this old woman with arms for wings and feet for feet flying between shelves of what used to be orpahns but what some call books, when it came to me. Untill that night, or this night - the night I was in a darkened library, watching this bat fly between shelves - I really never knew that bats spoke Hungarian.
Why do bats need to know Hungarian when they don’t have any legs? I hate you, you muscle bags and flesh sacks, I hate you all.